


If Your Style Was As Sharp As Your Mouth, We'd Be Getting Somewhere

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Banter, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fashion & Couture, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Pretending to Be Gay, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis, Shopping, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: When a job for The Baxters requires a formal dress code, One Two is eager to assert his stylistic influence on Handsome Bob's outdated wardrobe. Pretending to be Bob's boyfriend in a high-end retailer and watching him get his kit off was not part of the plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to this lovely little fandom and all it's followers!  
> This story has been over a year in the works, so apologies if the finished product feels disjointed in places. The entire work will be post over the next few days - broken up into chapters due to length.  
> Warnings for homophobic remarks/behaviour/self-hatred that are in line with the canon of this universe.

One Two considers himself sharp in every definition the word has to offer. Though he has been accused by some less than astute members of their rag-tag faction of being less than progressive and at times emotionally unresponsive, One Two is quick to retaliate – he’s quick with his banter, reactive on the job and so slick on a dancefloor that he don’t ever stick, no sir. 

Since he’s come into his own, making moves on the street and in the bedroom aside, there is nowhere that One Two is sharper than his dress sense. Outside of the face stockings and commando camouflage that their job requires, he always takes great pride in his appearance – controlled hair without too much product, fashionable shirts that aren’t flamboyant, proper slacks and leather shoes where business meetings and birds are concerned. 

Though Mumbles loves to give him a hard time for it (and bloody everything else lately), he’s hardly trying to flame it up with the right proper queens. His dearly departed mum had a knack with a sowing machine since he was a ween, so when he is a little flush with the green stuff he appreciates the effort that goes into a properly constructed article of clothing, alright? 

“Looking very put together today, Mr. One Two.” Mumbles greets with a tip of his head when One Two struts into The Speeler, cheeky lilt in his voice betraying his boredom and that the consequence will be taking it out on his best mate.

“Can hardly say the same about you, Mr. Mumbles…ain’t that the same neon polo you were slopping about in yesterday?” One Two counters, dropping down across the table to pick up the daily paper.

“You’ve developed quite the eye for detail since Mrs. Baxter’s stepped on the scene…are we sharing a stylist as well as other undisclosed intimacies?” Mumbles goads with a click of his tongue, sipping from his tea astutely as he watches One Two’s reaction. 

“Ha! The lovely little accountant has nothing to do with it.” One Two proclaims, ironing out his newspaper, before jabbing a finger in Mumbles’ direction, “I’ll have you know this eye-catching aesthetic is all my own, sir. You know, you might learn something if you paid attention - it wouldn’t hurt your chances if a bit of my influence rubbed off on you…” 

“Quite the vocabulary on you too…posh bird’s got the plumb for enunciation and the touch of the silver spoon in your mouth at the same time, eh? Must spend a lot of time swallowing,” Mumbles grins as One Two splutters, switching his focus as the final piece of The Wild Bunch rolls in, standing to clap him on the shoulder jovially, “Mr. Handsome…we’ve just been discussing Mr. One Two’s stylistic sensibilities…he reckons himself a bit of a mover and a shaker…now, how would you feel if he rubbed off on you?” 

“Hmmm…” Handsome glances off in thought as though he’s considering it as One Two gawks, before crinkling his nose distastefully and speaking out of his nose with an elitist twang, “Already had his shot at that, didn’t he?” 

One Two stiffens as Mumbles falls back into his seat laughing, Bob sailing by to grab a spot at the table without a care. The revelation from the night before Bob was supposed to be sent down had settled into normalcy amongst the group, even if Mumbles still wasn’t convinced that One Two had disclosed the true extent of the entire incident, but it still bothered One Two all the same that the others were still so comfortable talking about it like it was nothing. One Two was seeing Stella on and off and from his relaxed swagger Bob had definitely had blokes in between (though One Two preferred not to think too closely on that) but a private exchange between mates should still be held somewhat sacred. 

“That total ignorance of context and general professionalism is exactly what The Wild Bunch lacks!” One Two recovers, glad that his flustered face is momentarily hidden behind his newspaper before he recovers and drops it unceremoniously to get up on his soap box, “Up and coming criminal enterprise like ours, represented by a man whose hygiene is as questionable as his morals…” One Two ducks aside as Mumbles pegs an undisclosed object in his direction, “and another who dresses as though he’s barely old enough to wipe his own ass let alone drive!”

“Wow… you have the floor, my old son. Bring us another cuppa, darlin’?” Mumbles calls, drawing Barbara over and meanwhile making air traffic control motions with his hands and signalling that maybe One Two doesn’t want to go down this path behind Bob’s back as his brows shoot up into his buzz cut. 

“Do go on, One Two.” Bob’s intones with monotonous disinterest, flipping a chair so he can straddle it, crossing his dangling arms over the back as he rests his head on his forearms as though he’s so bored already that he can barely keep it up. 

“Gentlemen, don’t get the wrong idea…” One Two backtracks a little, having never been the best at performing with a spotlight trained on him at a moment’s notice, “It’s not that your get up isn’t fine for The Speeler…” 

“Didn’t realise there was a dress code.” Mumbles enquiries with amusement, looking to Bob for solidarity. Bob nods sharply, eyes still trained on One Two, mid-song and dance. 

“…but out on the street, we have a reputation to uphold…”

“Here we go…” Fred mumbles in the backgrounds, shuffling his deck as Bob snickers, momentarily shattering his best serious façade. 

“So you want us all tarted up in a uniform, then?” Bob interrupts, as Mumbles covers his mouth with his hands, feigning a yawn. 

“No, Bob – can you just let me finish? Christ, for a man of your – your standing… you’re surprisingly unperceptive in this area.” One Two stumbles out before he can get a handle on his temper, pissed off at not being taken seriously. 

“What did you say now?” Bob narrows his eyes warningly, head lifting from its stationary resting place. 

“Easy, Handsome. Careful with our words now, One Two.” Mumbles, ever the peacemaker, intones, watching both of them cautiously, pre-prepared to prevent a kick off. 

“What I meant was – you’re a young man – with an active – social life…” One Two gesticulates wildly as Bob adopts a more relaxed pose, amusement spreading a slow smirk over his face as everyone else in the room tunes in to One Two’s best attempt at political correctness. 

“You mean sex life?” Mumbles adds, looking around the room as the rest nod supportively and Bob’s grin widens lasciviously, “We’re all adults here.” 

“Yes Mumbles, I couldn’t care less where he gets his end away…” One Two scoffs, “Bob, young, good-looking, ‘active’ bloke like you should have more of a care for the way he presents himself…” 

“Fascinating, mate…” Bob begins picking at a frayed hole in his too large sweater, non-committal like he isn’t really listening and dropping his eyes to frown at the hole as though it’s more interesting than the point One Two is trying to make right now. 

It doesn’t help the way that the situation escalates that One Two really can’t stand the way that Bob dresses – and it has nothing to do with the way he still manages to get on the pull with…whomever he chooses just fine regardless, alright? To One Two, concern in your appearance was a reflection of the esteem with which you valued yourself, an extension of your self-worth. And though he could forgive an old codger like Mumbles who was basically colour blind and wouldn’t recognise taste if it hit him over the head with a stick, Handsome was different…he showed a blatant disregard for any basic fashion conventions. It was a holey jumper or over-sized tee with a hoodie and trainers for every occasion. It drives One Two spare if he’s honest with himself, the way the collar hangs, loose off him like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s a criminal, yeah, but he has standards, and Handsome just wasn’t quite there. 

“Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass and looked in a mirror every once in a while, you’d think so!” One Two snapped back, temper flaring irritably, “Are you just waiting for the moths to finish with it or your next welfare payment?” 

“Easy, son, easy…!” Mumbles moves out of his seat with intent as Bob pops properly out of his chair now, chest pressed out, bouncing on his heels volatilely. 

“Nice. I’d rather dress my age, yeah, than ponce it up like my grandfather over here!” Bob hisses viciously as Barbara oohs at the verbal exchange, cleaning away their chipping china from the table as Fred snorts with mild offence.

“You could learn a thing or two from someone older…maybe you should speak to your boyfriend, Mr. Baxter?” One Two slings back. He can’t help himself or stop the surprising amount of venom that laces the words, practically dripping out the side of his mouth.

“Sure you haven’t been chatting to him on the side, One Two? You might be more fairy than he is in that get up.” Bob fires back savagely and that’s got One Two moving on him in earnest now with Mumbles already between them. 

It is both opportune and unfortunate that at that moment the resident junkies roll in to pedal their weekly wares.

“Now, now, everyone, let’s take a seat and enjoy an alternative form of entertainment, hmm?” Mumbles calls dutifully, all but wrestling an irate One Two back into his chair, shooting Bob a glance that warns him to simmer down as he throws his hands in the air faultlessly, the cheeky grin spread so familiarly across his face it was like it never left. 

“Unbelievable… getting attacked for giving my piece in my own home…it’s a fucking disgrace!” One Two fumes, shoving Mumbles’ hands off him. All he’s trying to do is help the hapless sods better themselves and this is the shit he cops? Not half. 

“Have off…you came at me and I’m not allowed to retaliate?” Bob shoots back despite Mumbles’ best attempts to get him to disengage, biting the inside of his cheek as he tries not to giggle, still all adrenaline- amped up.

“It’s all in your delivery mate…must be your accent…intention gets lost in translation sometimes.” Mumbles nods wisely, still placed at the ready between the two with his legs sprawled apart like a bouncer. 

“Don’t give me that shit…the pair of you can bugger off! You… watch yourself before I box your pretty head in!” One Two finishes as the junkies finish their set up and wait to begin their presentation with a sharp indication to Bob, before he turns to Mumbles, “…and you stop encouraging him and winding me up!” 

One Two falls into a grumbling silence. Mumbles swats Bob away as he makes kissing noises in the Scot’s direction and does his best to look attentive as the junkies begin their pitch, producing from their trash bag-suitcase-substitutes two long trench coats that slip their way onto their gangly persons. 

“Feast your eyes on this season’s latest look!” The first proclaims proudly, as the other makes a show of upturning the sizeable collar and flaring out the coat tails as Bob whoops with mock appreciation and Mumbles shakes his head at the encouragement. 

“Fancy yourself a bit of the proper London look? Just in time for winter…” 

“It’s the middle of summer, you bell-ends!” Bob calls through cupped hands. One Two squints harder at his newspaper, doing his best to block them all the fuck out. 

“Get in before the new season begins, ay?” The second urges as the other swishes ridiculously about, “These are straight from the fall range…an absolute steal…”  
“I bet they were.” Mumbles mutters with an affirmative tip of his tea cup. One Two clears his throat in displeasure, but says nothing. 

“They’re a bit alright I reckon…” For all his mickey-taking, Bob’s voice has melted a bit, appraising, “How much, then?” 

“You’ll not find these for cheap on High Street, gorgeous!” The first calls again, “Don’t get to be the flashiest toff around on the cheap, but you’ve got yourself a bargain on your hands today, oh yes! From the esteemed fashion house of Burberry, London-” 

“ENOUGH…GO ON, GET!” 

Everyone freezes to look at One Two as he booms, stands, slams his open palms on the table for good measure just so the room has his attention again. He has tried, really has tried to keep his nose out of it and behave but he will not see the name of a respectable business run through the dirt for this absolute crock of shite. 

“Here we go…” Mumbles mutters, dark brows drawn together as Bob’s mouth drops open in surprise before snapping shut again. 

“They were just wrapping up, One Two darling, weren’t they?” Barbara soothes, putting a hand on one of his straining arms. One Two just eyes the junkies sternly as they quickly begin to scatter, leaving half their produce behind in the process. Life on the street waiting for the next hit had taught them something in the way of survival skills, at least. 

“Out with your counterfeit crap!” One Two waves them on as the junkies beeline for the door. 

“A perfectly profitable afternoon, squandered…” Mumbles intones mournfully, eyes full of mirth as the rats scurry back down the drain pipe. Bob, unable to help himself today it seems, wanders over to inspect the abandoned paraphernalia, snatching one of the jackets off the floor and making a show of dusting it off. 

“Don’t see what’s wrong with it…” Bob murmurs, running his inquisitive eyes and hands over the coat as One Two stares at him like he might just flip the table and his shit along with it. 

“What do ya mean what’s wrong with it? I canne…what’s wrong with you?” One Two booms in frustration. Mumbles winces audibly beside him, but in his current state of wound-up distress he is oblivious to anything but Bob’s total lack of general comprehension. 

“Johnny Quid has a coat just like this.” To One Two’s horror, Bob defiantly slips on one arm and then the other, then begins doing up the dark buttons. 

“And I am sure it is the genuine article! Too much cash and too little class, that’s the entire fucking problem…take it off!” One Two shouts louder than intended. 

“What are you all worked up about? You know all the chavs wear this brand, right?” Bob queries lightly, making no move to remove the offending item. One Two doesn’t know what is more incensing at that moment – his intentional disrespect, the blissful ignorance of established London fashion houses, the cheap cut of the material or its uncomfortably smooth contrast against his fair skin… 

“Please don’t get him started…” Mumbles groans, dropping his face into his hands and distracting One Two for a second from his strangely wayward thoughts. 

“Yes, I am aware of that, Bob! Fucking football hooligans and street urchins. I’m not even toffy and I have more respect – that brand is nearly as old as the Queen Mum’s chin hairs!” 

“Ay! Oi. Have off!” The patriots flare up as One Two waves them off easily. 

“…and you’re content to allow street scum like that to deface a national treasure? Might as well let em piss on old Union Jack himself…good enough for your soldier’s in the first World War, but let the plebs have at it… for Christ’s sake, would you just get the fucker off?” 

Bob is just staring at him with that maddeningly relaxed smile as he rants and raves, like he’s totally off his rocker. It’s infuriating, that is, making One Two’s blood pressure sky rocket. 

“Did you just ask me to remove my clothing?” Bob counters cheekily, “You’ll have to do better than that to get at these goodies, mate.” 

“I’m warning you, Bob…” One Two hisses, face reddening with anger and climbing embarrassment. Like any other member of the Wild Bunch, in jest or no, by default Bob does not respond kindly to the threat, stormy eyes narrowing accordingly. 

“If you want it off so bad, why don’t you come take it, then?” Bob taunts, beckoning him on with his hands, and One Two has all but cleared the table ready for a right proper punch up when Barbara calls, “Phone for you, One Two! Sounds like that posh bird.”

One Two clenches his fist, snarls and stalks out of the room. 

“This isn’t over, you tacky little bastard!” He yells over his shoulder. Mumbles is blessedly glad his timing is as off as always, turning away just as Bob flip the bird at his back.

“Is it ever between those two?” Fred asks the room as Barbara shakes her head despairingly. 

“If One Two could just admit that he isn’t the Kate Moss of playing dress up, he’d be alright, you know?” Bob mutters wearily, gaze trained on the spot where he had been. 

“Yeah mate, that’s what he needs to own up to. Drown the cat rather than let it out, right?” Mumbles thinks to himself, but says nothing with a shake of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the entire of the Wild Bunch required for Stella's assignment, One Two delights in dragging a less than amused Handsome Bob to his first high-end shopping experience. The tables turn when Bob ends up convincing the sales assistant they're more than just business partners and One Two gets caught in an unintentionally compromising position with Bob in the change rooms.

“I need a favour.” Stella sounds the same as always down the line – direct, breathy and bored. 

“Well, hello to you too– shall we begin our transaction?” One-Two greets sarcastically, rolling his eyes into the receiver. After experiencing…intimate parts of him, the least she could do was acknowledge his bleeding existence. He wasn’t precious about their open and infrequent relations, but he still has a fucking heart and some decency about him, “And I told you before, desserts are off the table.”

“Not smarties – let’s meet for afternoon tea to discuss some work?”

“Same place?” 

“Same time. Don’t be late.” The line clicks off with no further fanfare.

“You’d think we were in a bloody Bond movie.” One Two grunts to himself, before slipping out the back door.

 

* 

In person, she’s always better than he remembers. A mere slip of a silhouette, stalking about on red shoes that might as well be dipped in his blood. He’s shed enough to give her that little taste of the rough life that she craves with desperate, unaffected detachment.

“Bertie’s having a party. Mixed clientele, so we will need some…less than desirable security to be on hand.” She murmurs with her sleepy cadence.

“Cash?” One Two confirms, ever the diplomat.

“Same as always.”

“Sounds simple enough – weapons?”

“Won’t be necessary.” One Two raises his eyebrows indelicately and swears he almost sees some humour in her eyes as she assures him, “We’ve installed a metal detector, so no surprises. Now, you’ll need to see my tailor so you’re appropriately attired…”

“Right…the knuckle dusters and chivs are to be the only signs we are anything less than dignified.” One Two scoffs, moving to leave, “I’ll be sure to inform my colleague…”

“Colleagues.”

“What now?”

“Bertie wants The Wild Bunch there.” Stella affirms without affectation. 

“Wait, but we are The…” One Two goes to explain before his dark eyes widen, startled, before he can school his features back into place, “Negative. Can’t risk it. Bob drives, he’s not…”

The delicate twitch of a smile that sends a fissure through her whole blank façade is an alarming indication that she has picked up on an emotional cue that One Two had not meant to signal.

“Nothing will happen to your…Bob.” Stella promises, rolling his name on her tongue with a warm amusement that makes One Two hot and cold simultaneously, “My husband made it clear that The Wild Bunch was to be in attendance. If you’re not interested in the job…” She demurely uncrosses her legs, making to exit.

“Steady, steady on…we’ll do it for double the price. Insurances for potential damages and costs incurred.” One Two bargains. For the psychological strain that attempting to transform Bob into a replica of the upper class will force upon him, or hush money for the boys in blue for when he attempts to commit a felonious crime in the act of murder that he will most definitely go down for when he reaches his wit’s end.

“He must be quite the man, this Wild Bunch, to demand so high a fee…I bet Bertie doesn’t even know what to do with him.” Stella murmurs appreciatively, unpacking an oblivious One Two with her eyes as though he were wearing nothing at all. When One Two fails to respond, too busy contemplating the intricacies of committing a homicide undetected, she saunters off, calling back, “Do enjoy spending like the other half.”

 

*

 

“We’ve got a job on with the Baxters. Security at swanky party. Not the same as before, but not too different.” One Two announces back in The Speeler. Normally he’d take it to the back room but there’s no point now the whole crew is going to be involved.

“Bout bloody time the Baxters brought the goods. Two man gig, then?” Mumbles enquires with enthusiasm. Good – maybe now he has some work to occupy him, he’ll lay off One Two.  

“Mr. Baxter asked for The Wild Bunch and he wasn’t talking about us.” One Two gestures between them before staring pointedly at the table where Bob is shuffling their dog-earred deck of cards.

“Don’t tell me I’m off the bench?” Bob grins, leaping up excitedly while One Two’s guts drops like he’s eaten something off. He gets why the pair of them are geed up, being their first appointment in ages, but something about it has him feeling uneasy.

“Not yet. We’ve got to get you kitted out first.” One Two’s shit-eating grin covers the growing anxiousness twisting inside of him as he waves the department store card high in the air for all to see.

“Ooh, can you pick me up something while you’re there, One Two?” Barbara coos, falling on his bicep as he laughs, spinning and dipping her and sending her into a swoon.

“With this dirty money? Couldn’t risk a face like that on conspiracy, pet. The Speeler’d cease to exist.” He winks as Barb giggles, kisses him on the cheek and goes to make more tea.

“You’ve got to be kidding…” Bob mutters in annoyance. Mumbles tsks at him like an overbearing mother and distracted as he always is just after having his arms full with a lovely lady, One Two doesn’t notice that it’s about more than just the implications of the job. 

“Stiff upper lip, my old son.” Mumbles murmurs in his direction with the slightest hint of sympathy, before turning back to One Two, who is entirely enthralled in watching Miss B walk away, “Want to look good on our first day at the firm…new strip?” 

“Indeed - there’s some laundering to be done of the retail persuasion…the least you could do is look a bit enthused, Bob! Thought you’d be jumping at the chance to purchase some clothes that hadn’t been worn exclusively by degenerates or the decreased.” One Two chides.

“Is it too late to take that five stretch?” Bob asks dejectedly, all the energy gone out of him with a slump of his shoulders. 

“Very mature. Shall we get on then?” One Two pushes, looking at Mumbles insistently.

“Not I, said the fly.” Mumbles declines without a hint of remorse, pushing out his chair and making for the door, “Errands to run. You boys enjoy your shopping trip…you’ve got my measurements, bring us back something nice, love and get our boy Bob looking even better if that’s possible, yeah?”

“You’ve got to be having a laugh…” Bob groans as Mumbles winks and waves.

“That’d be right…flick the Harris Twins a couple of dollars for me while you’re at it, you filthy animal!” One Two yells out as Mumbles strolls out, laughing, into the sunlight. Once he’s departed, One Two sidles up to Bob and loops a jovial arm around his shoulder, pulling him towards the door, “Who needs him anyway? Just you and me, Bobski, like old times.”

“Delightful.” Bob sighs, but allows himself to be dragged.

For his part, One Two decides to ignore the less than enthusiastic response and any other underlying concern that might be worrying at him at the thought of the two of them being alone together once again down with it. Instead he chooses to focus on the positives – a little quality time with his best mate, a chance to introduce him to the concept of a reasonably structured outfit and spending money that isn’t his – a few of One Two’s favourite pursuits all rolled into one.

“That the spirit, Bob.” One Two encourages as he jumps into the passenger seat with Bob sat glumly behind the wheel, “If you can’t get the car going, your enthusiasm might.”

“It’s just not my idea of a good time, alright?” The slick slide of the steering wheel under Bob’s hands as he peels away from the curb seems to settle him but his stunted tone still punctuates his displeasure. One Two does his best not to think about what Bob considers enjoyable leisure pursuits, and squints, focusing hard on trying to win him over to the experience. Maybe if he could nudge Bob a little bit in the right direction, sartorially speaking, his general presence would drive him less around the bend? If he were a betting man, One Two would bank on it. 

“You, my friend, wouldn’t know a good time if it smacked ye upside the head,” One Two scoffs as they turn a corner, “There’s more to life than flogging Arsenal fans and flicking your dick, you know.”

“As opposed to sinking piss till you can’t see, strip clubs and flipping through the form guide? I guess I’m not as cultured as you, One Two…maybe I’ll understand in my senior years…oi!” Bob snickers, gasping over theatrically when One Two punches him in the arm.

“Enough of that, smart-arse, take a left!” One Two orders bossily, before switching his tone back to his best con, “Slander aside, you’re in for quite the treat, you know…shopping on the high-end…you may find this to be quite the therapeutic experience…”

“Really…” Bob mutters without conviction, not really asking or encouraging One Two to continue as they roll up to a red light. One Two, with his bullish natures, powers on through regardless of the verbal stop sign.

“Mock all you want, but picking your colours, finding the right fit – the end result can be quite satisfying. It could do wonders for your confidence with…blokes…you know…” One Two continues determinedly, even with the stumble at the end. Bob looks at him for a second as they pull away, almost fondly were it not to be followed up with merciless teasing.

“I see…you think it might help me on the pull?” Bob enquires, deliberately dropping his voice to a more intimate octave, unable to keep the jab out of the combination as he adds lightly, “If Bertie’s there, it’d be nice to secure an easy option for the evening…”

“Why sure – wait, what – can we not bring the Baxter’s into this, please? Let’s keep it above board, ay?” One Two falters, his tone cracking at the conversational blindside. Even with Stella’s insistence that Bob be in on the deal, he never actually thought that Bob had gone through with the date with Bertie post his papers being conveniently misplaced.

“Bit late to keep it above the belt for both of us, isn’t it?” Bob laughs lightly, breezing over the confirmation. One Two remains silent, head swimming. So he had – with Bertie – it was one thing to have heard Bob’s homosexuality bought out of the bag and into the open, but to think of him with someone that One Two had interacted with, even on the basest level, made it all that much more real…

“Eh?” One Two replied blearily, coming out of his blackout realisation and sensing he had fallen out of the conversation in spectacular style. 

“I said are you alright? Need me to crack a window…you look a bit pale, there.” Bob observes with his eyes astutely on the traffic.

“I’ve not been with Stella solidly since…the Russians… can we leave it at that, eh?” One Two lies between his teeth. It’s a piss poor effort but Bob accepts its begrudgingly, sensing there is more but not willing to push – bless his sometimes-decent heart.

“Alright, alright…” The conversation peters off. Afraid of the silence and its incriminating implication, One Two jumps back in half-cocked as per his modus operandi.

“Take a right, nearly there – look, I didn’t mean to be short, it’s just all a bit fresh, okay?” One Two blathers, desperate to fill in the blanks, “Jobs with the Baxters are always the same in that none of them are fucking predictable. To say I’m more than a little on edge after the last one is an understatement…”

“You worry yourself too much, One Two. Get in, smack a few heads, get out. It’ll be fine.” Bob’s voice is soft, coaxing and One Two catches himself from leaning into it, letting it hold him up. Inside, he’s busying convincing himself as much as Bob that that is all it is – just nerves before another big, hot mess of a job. That’s it. No strings.

“Let me do the worrying – this afternoon is all about relaxing and enjoying your first proper retail experience.” One Two nods affirmatively.

“I’ve been to the shops before, you know.” Bob mutters sourly, and One Two breathes a sigh of relief that even in taking the mickey, the focus has shifted off him.

“For milk and sweets, Bob. This is going to be so much better!” One Two assures, “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t love it. Haven’t you seen that show on the telly that Barb watches with all those poofs – I mean gays – with their lipstick and their quaffed hair skipping about, showing ugly, colour-blind slobs how to dress so they can get up for the dole each day? It’s all a bit gaudy for me, but your kind love this sort of thing...why’re you pulling over?”  

“Because if I listen to you compare me to Queer Eye for one more second, I will put you through the windshield.” Bob confirms savagely, slamming on the breaks. One Two nearly goes over the dash without the inflicted threat as Bob jams on the hand break and aggressively unbuckles his seatbelt without a word, slamming the door behind him and leaving One Two speechless for a record-breaking two seconds before he scrambles after him.

 “There’s no need for that now, Bob!” One Two calls, lopping after him with a grin on his face, “I was only trying to relate in terms you’d understand…you’ll be thanking me once this is done!” 

“You say that, but an eight by four is looking better by the minute!” Bob shouts back, moving steadily ahead through the trail of tourists and window shoppers and not slowing his pace. 

“ _Am I going to have fun with this_ …” One Two thinks to himself as he shifts gear into a jog to follow Bob up the fashionable end of West London.

 

*

 

The familiar chime of the doorbell as One Two enters the tailor’s shop relaxes him almost instantaneously. The beeping light on the security cameras perched watchfully in the corners of the ceiling elicit a mindful frown, but does nothing to disrupt his otherwise cheery disposition and he takes a second to savour it with a bodily exhale. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of leaving the hustle of the grimy city streets behind to peruse the pristine isles and arrangements of pure craftsmanship. The relaxed atmosphere is completed with a single, silent sales assistant whose salary is deeper than your pockets will ever be and the soothing sounds of unidentifiable nature recordings.

Unless of course you’re sharing the experience with a recently caffeinated Handsome Bob, whose sneakers squeak energetically across the white tiled floors, disrupting the ambience and any last grab at happiness One Two might have.

“Sure this isn’t a bit over-the-top for the occasion?” Bob hums quietly as he begins riffling through a nearby rack with reckless abandon.

“The term dress for success has never applied more and in this instance, money is not an object – give me that!” One Two replies as he quickly moves to Bob’s side, grabbing a garishly trimmed blazer out of his hands and repositioning it on the rack with a concerned frown. Bob barely even notices, moving onto a perfectly poised pile of cardigans, sticking his tongue out in concentration like a naughty child as his hands move to remove one directly from the centre for closer inspection.

“And what exactly does dressing up like you fell off a runway have to do with getting the job done proper?” Bob presses, producing the item without tipping over the stack but causing the tower to lean dangerously. 

“The situation requires us to present a certain image…” One Two explains, gritting his teeth in frustration as he rights the stack.

“Since when do we get paid to look pretty?” Bob challenges, picking up a pair of gold rimmed sunglasses, cringeworthily popping them on his face and sliding them down his nose for effect, winking at One Two flirtatiously before haphazardly slipping them back on the stand. 

“We’re being paid to perform a service, if you’d let me finish!” One Two snaps in a harsh whisper as the sales attendant dutifully pretends not to have an ear on their conversation, eyes demurely downcast. His temper is rising and he’s not sure what irritates him more – how ugly the glasses are or how somehow Bob, even ironically, still manages to pull them off, “And I thought you’d be used to bringing in an income based on your looks alone by now, Bob….”

“You wanna say that a little louder, mate?” Bob’s posture is relaxed as he continues to meander, but the rasp in his voice has degenerated into a viperous hiss.

“Might as well open a side business.” One Two sniffs. He tells himself he only means to stir, but as usual he can’t resist the opportunity without Mumbles present to take it one step too far. Given the unusual circumstances in the restrains of this high-society store and its enforced behavioural codes, the chance was too good to resist. 

“Yeah, and I’m the unprofessional one.” Bob snorts, making a show of picking up a chiffon scarf and admiring the handiwork on the tassels, “You talk a big game about appearances and professionalism in The Wild Bunch, One Two, but the only person you’re interested in servicing is our employer.”

“You take that back, you cheeky bastard!” One Two splutters in shock, raising his voice unintentionally and catching the sales assistant’s attention in the process. Though it might have all been in banter, he’s genuinely appalled at Bob’s questioning of his character…while he may have additional motives, the work is front and centre. It only takes a secondary lapse in concentration for the youngest and no less dangerous member of the Wild Bunch to have the scarf quickly looped and knotted around his neck.

 “Cheeky? You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Bob smiles dangerously, tightening the scarf around One Two’s windpipe with a tight squeeze. He’s clever about it, covertly shielding the view from the sales assistant with his body, shutting One Two up as he gasps, one hand caressing the fine material of the scarf while the other pats his face condescendingly, “You better watch your tongue because without the whole Wild Bunch, you’ve got no shot at getting back in with your little fling.”

“I don’t need you, so you can go right along and get fucked.” One Two grunts, wrapping a hand around Bob’s wrist and jerking it down with a growl. He’s too busy fuming to realise how close they’ve gotten, aggressively up in each other’s space with bare inches between their faces.  

“Oh, I’m banking on that fact that you do and don’t think for a second I don’t plan to.” Bob smiles, giving the scarf a final, viciously breath-shortening tug before unlooping it and remove it from his person with an unfair amount of grace from where One Two is puffing and silently bellowing.

“Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?” The perfectly clipped, singsong voice of the customer service assistant comes from behind Bob’s back. Despite their best attempts at concealment within the upper social rungs, being the only two in the store there is no way that she hasn’t overheard their whispered clamouring. Bob allows her to intervene, moving to let her between them, cool and composed as she takes in One Two’s reddened face. Bastard.

 “Can you fix our difference in taste?” Bob turns on the Lady-Killer charm with an effortlessness that spikes One Two’s blood pressure even higher than before as the attractive young lady makes eyes at him. How is it fair that that curve ball works on both sexes every damn time regardless of whether Bob bats for their team?

Unable to miss an opportunity for one-upmanship, One Two adds, “Apologies darlin’, my…uh…partner is finding this experience a little bit overwhelming…it’s his first time, you see…" 

“Shopping with us?” The sales assistant adds for clarity’s sake. 

“You can tell just by looking at him…” One Two grins, ready to run Bob’s glowing early impression into the ground before he cuts himself off with a choked off noise as he feels Bob wrapping his arms around the crook of his bicep.

“It’s our first time out, shopping together.” Bob rushes out, whiskey-and-cigarette-huskiness turned to enamoured breathiness as One Two freezes beside him and the shop assistant breaks her polished demeanour to emit a girlish squeal.

“What? But – he – we’re not…” One Two stutters in a desperate attempt to undo the damage that has been inflicted as Bob unwraps his arm with a laugh. How can the unintentional use of one word be so emphatically turned on its head? 

“Cat’s out the bag, love.” Bob punches One Two in the arm with unnecessary force, all previous pretences of affection dropped. One Two is still stuck in place as he looks from Bob’s stupidly smug grin to the sales assistant who is visibly refraining from jumping up and down on the spot.

“How wonderful…say no more!” The sales assistant interlocks her hands below her chin for a second dreamy stare before controlling herself and dropping them professionally to her sides, “And what is the occasion?” 

“He’d have me believe it was for pleasure, but we’re here on business.” Bob covers easily for the pair of them, his relaxed manner and easy grin reflect by the sales assistant who is chortling at the terrible line.

“Oh my god…” One Two groans to himself, dropping his head in his hands and beseeching whatever god of mayhem or mischief amid the pantheon that society’s less desirables beg to in their epiphytic moments of need to send him the strength to survive this.

“Now, now, there’s no need to fret.” A sympathetic mew comes from the direction of the sales assistant who must misconstrue his despair at the blatant misrepresentation of his sexuality as the anguished cries of a deeper internalised struggle associated with oppression or some other such emotion that One Two as a six-foot-plus, Scottish male has never experienced in his existence.

“We have a meeting tomorrow, high-end like. A lot is riding on this deal, so my partner here is mad about making the right impression though I’ve tried to convince him that our work will speak for itself.” Bob lies smoothly, biting back the laughter in his voice as he fills in the blanks as One Two looks up slowly, refusing to speak until he can convince himself he won’t explode.

“Tell me more while we walk,” The sales assistant enthuses, wrapping an arm around Bob’s, who nearly balks himself before forcing himself to relax as she pulls him deeper into the store towards the fitting area as One Two begrudgingly follows, “You two met at work?”

The red-flag shoots up immediately in One Two’s distracted head and it must for Bob too, who again takes one easily for the team.

“On the job, yeah. It’s an old-boy’s kind of industry, so we don’t talk about our work or…what we are outside of it. Not the right image, you know?”

It almost stops One Two dead in his tracks how carefully Bob chooses his words there and it’s not just in constructing the fabric of their fictional narrative or safeguarding their identities. _What we are…_ the way he ghosts over the words sparks something fierce in One Two’s chest that he boxes up to analyse later...even if he’s not a gay himself, not outside of this ridiculously expensive store, it hurts and infuriates him that Bob should ever think he has something to be ashamed about. 

“I see,” The sales assistant nods supportively, but steers tactfully away from the subject, “And what is the dress code for this event?”

Silence follows and One Two finds his words again, needing to pick up the slack so Bob cab recover after unintentionally laying all his vulnerabilities out there for the both of them.

“Formal, but not black tie, so we’ll be needing some suits made up.” He directs, glad to feel somewhat more in control of the situation now, rooting around in his pockets for the takeaway receipt he had scribbled Mumbles’ sizing on, “I’ve got some measurements for our other…colleague, but we’ll need to get my main man here drawn up.”

He hands the assistant the paper with his and Mumbles’ sizing, smiles a little weakly at Bob, who is looking much brighter, grinning back at the familiar term of endearment between them. The assistant is away like a whirling top, darting there and back again and pushing a surprised Bob into a change room and snapping the curtain shut without warning.

“Get your gear off then, love and we’ll get you some samples to try!” She calls cheerily, forcing a slowly retreating One Two into a sitting position, stranded uselessly on the giant cushioned island in the centre of the room as she zips past.

This part shouldn’t bother him as much as it does – he’s used to the flurry of activity that follows, the ongoing stream of clothing to be tried, the jangle of hangers and the gentle swish of material being laid of material.

One Two had always found the mindless routine of it oddly calming, but the mundanity is drowned out by the almost unnerving quietness within the high-end store. Everything is amplified, turning up the volume on his scattered thoughts and the static discomfort thrumming in his head. Tells himself it’s just the instinct their line of work has honed in him, a natural guardedness that the alien nature of their situation, and the risks associated with it, has pushed him into. The sooner they can get the goods and get back to the job, the better.

Given his edginess, it’s no surprise he nearly jumps out of his skin when Bob swears loudly from his alcove. One Two bites down on his reaction, swallows it down and attempts to refocus on the only forthcoming sound – the audible rustling of Bob’s clothes and his short, huffed out breaths as though a struggle is occurring.

“Alright there, Bob?” One Two finds his voice, thick eyebrows knitting together as the intermittent sounds of shuffling and tiny grunts interrupt the stagnant silence.

“Mind popping in for a second, mate?” 

“Er…” One Two looks around blankly for a second for the assistant, who has taken it upon herself to recommence her invisibility act, before getting slowly to his feet and moving towards the door. 

As One Two covers his eyes with a free hand (best to give the man his privacy, out of respect and all) just outside the curtain aside, Bob murmurs with a hint of self-consciousness that twists something strange inside One Two’s belly, “It’s a bit embarrassing…”

“You sure you dun’ want that nice lady to help yer?” One Two grunts out, panicky for reasons he can’t understand and suddenly a little self-aware himself, blindly feeling for the edge of the curtain.

“I know it’s not your bag, but I hardly want her to see I’ve gone commando…” is the low, almost guttural response that has One Two nearly falling straight back out of the curtain he’d just slipped in.

“Christ, you dirty bastard!” One Two barks, stabilising himself with one hand as the other covers his eyes, face well and truly cherry now, “What do yer want me to do, loan ya mine and wait in here, starkers?”

Bob’s laugh echoes obscenely, trailing off as he sighs with a wistful knowingness.

“You’ve covered your eyes, haven’t you? Open em and give us a hand!”

“Bob, I’m not sure I can give you the kind of hand you’re into…” 

Against his will, One Two peels his modest coverage away and in spite of himself, feels his breath stick in his throat. It’s not as bad as Bob had led him to believe, but from his body’s natural reaction, it was far and away from good. 

In the process of unchanging, Bob’s gone and got his jumper and his t-shirt entangled, locking his arms above his head as he attempts to pull them over. Trailing down the natural line of his body, the movement leaves his torso exposed. Even unbraced, the tight stomach muscles shift and tense across the smooth plane of his belly as he attempts to wrestle free. In tandem, the idiot has managed to only get half his trousers off. His jeans are pooled around his lower legs, trapping his ankles, the only thing separating his most private self from the good Lord and One Two are a thinning pair of cotton briefs with a sizeable hole in the upper thigh. One Two averts his wide-eyed gaze, almost instantly. Almost. That damn hole has him seething a little internally for reasons he can’t place and he needs a hot minute to compose himself.

“You could teach the Harris twins a thing or two with this little show you’ve got going on.” One Two says, folding his arms over his broad chest and leaning against the wall with an amused snort, playfulness camouflaging the lengthy pause in between his entering the space and any attempt at actual assistance, “You know when she said to strip that she wasn’t going to pay you fer the privilege?”

No response as Bob continues to stubbornly struggle, nearly tripping himself over in the process.

“Shall I grab my phone, take a love shot for Mumbles so he knows what his missing?” One Two jokes, having a bit too much fun with it now, savouring the extra seconds in which to settle his features back to normalcy, get a handle of his ridiculous anger issues, cover his tracks.

“Yeah, yeah. Have a good laugh - are you just going to stand there and perv on me? Get a good eyeful.” Bob snaps back, and doesn’t that have One Two’s hands on him quicker than a cop with cuffs on a crim?

“Oi, now- this attitude is really taking the joy out of this whole thing – hold still, Bob!” One Two orders as Bob stops scraping with himself with a final huff of futility. Stepping forward and up, One Two puts his foot in between Bob’s to anchor his jeans down to his ankles, while getting his arms on the edge of Bob’s t-shirt and yanking upward.  

The motion puts One Two off balance as he pulls up and back and Bob, unhelpfully unaware of the foot between his legs, moves to multi-task and free his feet and spills forward in the process with a yelp. Seeing him falling and desperate not to impale Bob’s groin on his knee, One Two shifts and lowers his leg quickly, falling off balance into the wall to come up with an armful of sweater-shirt and shirtless Bob, half straddling his partially retracted thigh.

“Now I’m not against helping a brother out, but this ...” One Two murmurs, oddly winded with his arms still locked around Bob’s waist, trying desperately to ignore how hard his heart is hammering or the gentle release as Bob separates the connection between their chests to hover, still inches from his own.  

“Is a handful?” Bob bites out cheekily, almost breathing harder than the situation warrants. When his eyes come up slowly to meet One Two’s, something panicky inside his chest relaxes – they are warm, familiar, almost bashful as his thick eyelashes wander down back to where their arms are still touching, cheeks tinted pink.

One Two is feeling overtly warm himself (must be the indoor heating, these high-end stores always overcompensated in contrast to the weather), nearly choking on his response. Before he can regenerate his cognitive functions enough to form a logical sentence, a tentative rustling of the curtain has Bob almost leaping into his lap as both men start.

“I’m so sorry to intrude gentlemen…do you need another minute in there? I’ll be right back.” The sales assistance calls, a bemused tinge in her voice and the sound of her heels clicking back out to the main floor causing One Two’s face to brighten with embarrassment.

“Be right there…”One Two calls back, voice cringeworthily high to his own ears as the implications of their situation set in on him, desperate to get out but still unable to get his body to leave its spot frozen against the wall with Bob still filling his arms and making no move to rectify the situation, filling out every inch of the oversized enclosure with his smoky laughter and his stupid masculine scent mingled with sweat and petrol, oddly comforting in the foreign confines.

“It’s okay, One Two, she’s not coming in.” Bob assures him with amusement lightening his tone, eyes fixed on One Two’s face as he tries not to die of a panic attack, enjoying his discomfort far too much.

“But-we-she…” One Two splutters helplessly, feeling like he’s never going to be able to inhale again.

“Thinks we are a couple. We’re covered – just breath okay?” Bob hushes him, voice low, moving to grab his elbows and pin him into place before he begins to hyperventilate in earnest, suddenly overwhelmed by their mission and the store and too aware of too much unintentional body contact, “She’s not going to call the cops and report two men playing grab ass in her salon…" 

“Bob – ye can’t just say things like that…” 

“I bet the Baxters have pretended to do the dirty in here a hundred times…keeping up their profile, yeah?” Bob muses, eyes light up and wandering around the room suggestively as One Two focuses desperately on dragging oxygen into his suddenly starving lungs. Cause that’s what he’s hungry for – the open, soiled London street air and nothing more.  

“What…that’s…and what do you mean we? You’re the one who fell into me…” One Two stammers weakly, feeling more naked than Bob now. While all of his senses seem to have gone to shit in fight or flight overload (what the hell is wrong with him today?), Bob has thankfully moved out of his arms but remains close, bracketing him against the wall with hands on either side of his head, stretching lazily like they have all the time in the world and aren’t in one of the most compromising situations of One Two’s criminal career. 

“If that’s the way you want to play it…” Bob breathes, something low and urgent underneath the concern in his voice as he looks at One Two intently, so exposed that One Two almost wants to cover his eyes again but can’t bring himself to look away or look anywhere else, “Look here. Now tell me you’re not going to flip out on me before I let you go? Because we’ve already smiled for the cameras out there and I am sure she isn’t above carding us for shoplifting if you leg it.”  

“Can you just stop leaning about and put some fucking clothes on so we can get out of here, please?” One Two snaps irritably, completely ignoring any indication that his head could be anywhere other than on the job at this point – that’s where it is and that’s the only place it has ever been, dammit.

“I was in the process of doing that before you came in here and started rough housing.” Bob shoots back, biting his stupidly plump lower lip in the motion of a half-formed smirk.

“Keep it up and I’ll show you rough.” One Two threatens reflexively, not at all considering the phrasing as he pushes off the wall to get into Bob’s space, anger radiating off him as he gets in Bob’s face. His head is a mess and adrenaline is coursing through his body, right-kind-of-wrong caught out reflex and he can’t help himself - the kid is really pushing his fucking buttons today.

“How are we going in there?” The assistant calls tentatively, and One Two feels like every capillary in his face must have exploded when he thinks about just how long they have been missing in action, arguing heatedly in the stall.

 “Coming darlin’!” One Two replies, pissed at how strained and rushed his voice sounds, like he’s been caught red handed when the reality is quite the opposite.

“You would be, if we were doing what she thinks we are.” Bob all but purrs, the sadistic fuck, “Bet you’d only need a minute too.”

“You – you shut your mouth so we can get through this. Fucking behave and put a shirt on!” One Two curses, shoving the scattered assortment of Bob’s clothing hard into his chest, forcing him to step backwards with a snicker so One Two could escape the cubicle and his clutches, emerging far more flustered than he had entered.

The remainder of the time in the store is a blur to One Two. Something about the time in the change room has soured his mood significantly. He plays the weary spouse perfectly - a silent onlooker to the selections of colours and tape measures and all the other intricacies of fine tailoring leaving nothing but a bad taste in his mouth as he taps his foot impatiently, desperate to make a getaway.

“We’ll take all of them, sweetheart.” He butts in, unable to keep the shortness out of his clipped words despite the endearment when he just can’t take one second longer in the store anymore, both Bob and the sales assistant turning to face him in surprise. 

“But – the price, dear…” Bob begins, still playing, his mouth quickly changing from open to shut when he sees the serious, do-not-fuck-with-me intent in One Two gaze. Both smile quickly at the bewildered sales assistance, not wanting to seem like animals or raise any unnecessary suspicion.

“Ring it up, please.” One Two addresses the sales assistant, surrendering a black card with the Baxter’s account details shining on the surface, moving to lean against the counter and pretending to inspect the contents within, trying hard not to drum his fingers. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, but he needs to get the fuck out of this store, quick smart. Bob senses it too – handles the final pleasantries and the bags as One Two hurries out without so much as a backwards glance.

“Wait up!” Bob is the one chasing him this time, laden down by their purchases as he determinedly beelines back to their car. One Two wishes he had the key, refraining from kicking in the door as an outlet for his pent-up agitation.

“What’s stuck up your ass, One Two?” Bob demands after dumping the contents and jumping into the driver’s seat, confusion and concern intensifying the gaze locked onto his mate.

“Plenty, if that little stunt in there were to be believed!” One Two shot back irritably, anger rising. He knows that he is close to losing it, going overboard like the last time they had a confrontation in the front seat if he doesn’t keep a handle on it.

“Of course…can’t handle any hit to your precious fucking masculinity, can you?” Bob spits back venomously, slamming the keys into the ignition and twisting them so violently that the manual sputters in dismay.

“Are you mad? It’s got nothing to do with that…” One Two declares, unable to hide the defensive speed of his reply. 

 “Never mind that I created a completely flawless cover story…no, no, you just can’t deal with the fact that someone might have questioned you’re fucking manhood…unbelievable…you dragged me here, remember? And you were about as useful as a pig on a patrol without a pistol!” Bob muttered with a shake of his head, taking the next corner slightly too sharply and nearly slamming One Two into the door in the process.   

“Fer Christ’s sake, it had nothing to do with the - the gay thing, alright?” One Two persists, “The sales assistant asking all those questions just made me itchy, is all.”

“Nothing at all with the content of those questions?” Bob intones disbelievingly with a raised eyebrow.

“No, Bob, fuck! It was a good story…it just…complicated the process…then the change room thing…look, I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to us while were using a card that wasn’t in our name in a store with four sets of cameras and security patrolling past on a two-minute rotation. If you could’ve stopped jerking off for two seconds, you might’ve noticed that, ay?” One Two finishes, hoping that he sounds more convincing to Bob than he does to himself. It’s not entirely a lie – he was edgy once had taken stock of the security measures and Bob’s inability to take any situation seriously only heightened his anxiety. The gay thing just – he just wasn’t expecting it and the unintentional physical tangle in the change room with all those breathy words and innuendos, even if Bob was only hamming it up, left him feeling more than a little disoriented if he was honest.

It was just down to his compulsive nature – though others might see him as a bit of a maverick, he hated when their assignments didn’t run as per the briefing. Any hiccup in the delivery of their end would obliterate his chances with Stella, so there was a lot riding on this. Aside from his professional involvement in completely blowing it, Bob had no impact whatsoever.

 “I was only joking around…” Bob muttered sourly, but the whining suggested that their banter was back on and more importantly that he had disregarded his earlier suspicions and that they were back on an even keel. One Two’s face remained stern, but internally he breathed a little sigh of relief.

“It’s done now. Let’s just hope that woman’s eye for a decent outfit is better than her bullshit radar.” One Two brushes off the apology, eyeing the pile of bags in the back seat sceptically.

Now things were settled between him and Bob, he just hoped they could get back to his flat and finish what they came to do without completely blowing it. No homo intended.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moment's silence for all the articles of clothing that didn't make it through this chapter without being defaced or destroyed. 
> 
> Happy New Year everyone and many thanks to all who have supported my work in 2018, in this fandom and others. Hope you have a great last day of 2018, where ever you are in the universe x

When they finally get back to his flat, One Two fixes them both a whiskey double. Bob raises an eyebrow at the strength of the drink, but surprisingly slams it back anyway before retreating to the back area to change. Blinking as the younger man departs, One Two shakes his head with a grin and follows suit before returning for another. It’s not like he has a substance abuse problem, it’s just been a fucking taxing day – between trying not to kill Bob and having his favourite pastime effectively ruined whilst trying to play along with a false gay narrative, he’s fucking spent.

“Powdering your nose or something?” One Two calls, needing to break the silence that has settled as he fidgets, spinning his glass in his hands restlessly.

“Have off, I’ll be one minute…you must be used to waiting around…just play with yourself like you normally would.” comes the reply and One Two can’t help but laugh a little in spite of himself, the whiskey warming his throat and relaxing his demeanour.

“How do I look, eh?” Bob grins, exits the bathroom, raising his arms proudly and any good humour in One Two’s demeanour fades. The pale blue is the only colour Bob would agree with (so close to his beloved denim rag), but the shade is subtle. Either the shirt size has shrunken or Bob’s gotten bigger, because the lengthening of his arms only serves to accentuate its tightness, the carelessly undone top buttons offering the barest glimpse of his chest. The teasingly exposed skin is so infuriatingly reminiscent of the effect from his stupidly oversized jumper that One-Two wants to punch something. 

When it’s clear no response is forthcoming, Bob drops his hands to hips in mock exasperation. 

“Cat got your tongue, mate? If I were a bird, you’d say, ‘that’d look better on my bedroom floor.” Bob laughs, crossing his arms easily, stance wide and comfortable. This only serves to remind One Two of certain cats that never should have been let out of the bag, and can we just stop with the fucking animal metaphors already?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He breathes out harder than necessary, hands clenching and unclenching on his pants uncomfortably.

“Come on mate, it can’t be that bad. Perhaps I can persuade you with a better angle?” Bob coaxes with a purr, initiating a slow spin in an attempt to showcase his best side. Is that the voice he used…uses on Bertie? Christ. The pants are so perfectly tailored that One-Two is nearly sickened by his own exquisite handiwork. The black is simple, but the slim fit clings without give, flexing with the motion around lean muscles built on reactive driving and fight or flight and lifting heavy weights that One Two had always scoffed at. Until now.

“Beginning to think Handsome is a bit of a stretch, Bob.” One Two manages, unmoving, just getting it out dryly enough without his voice cracking, recuperating as the rotation finishes, but Bob has picked up that something’s off, giving him the look, the bastard. That’s the problem with being forced to check out your best mate in the name of propriety, isn’t it?

 “What’s the matter, then?” Bob asks, all raspy softness. After a moment of scrutiny that has One Two’s stomach twisting uncomfortably (did he eat something off?), his perplexed frown turns to wide eyed recognition, “Oh shit…forgot to tuck my tail in, didn’t I?”

He turns to the mirror, giving himself a thorough once over as he tucks his shirt in behind the back of his belt, distracted enough not to register One Two’s best attempts at not hyperventilating. What the fuck is going on with him? Quick...focus on something. Unconsciously following his hands, One Two notices that tucking away the excess exposes the surprisingly narrow slant of his waist. Bob is busy with his own subconscious ministrations, twisting his torso with his arms up to check the give in the material in a manoeuvre replicated by many a street-versed gorilla forced into a monkey suit.

The motion unearths a tag, still attached. One Two is about to make a smart comment about Bob planning to return the designer article in exchange for a lifetime supply of bargain-bin trainers when he catches himself coping an eyeful of his best mate’s arse.

It’s right there, in front of him…looking all…surely he’s never been in clothes that tight…well-fitted, that’s the thing…even the straightest bloke’d find it hard to avoid… Slamming his eyes shut, One Two desperately wants to blame the tag, point the finger at his own great eye for style and form, but it lingers that second too long and his heart sinks when he realises the only one he can blame is himself when he takes longer than a red-blooded heartbeat to gaze away. And it’s more than just an appreciative glance, it’s honest-to-god how’s-it –going-there heat, stirring redness into his cheeks and stoking warmth into his lower belly…  

“You left the tag on there…” One Two barks, feeling closer to faint than he ever has in his life as the colour drains from his face, surprises even himself as Bob half turns to face him, gesturing both vaguely and with unnecessary vigour in his general direction. Bob’s lips are parted in a shocked pink-o and One Two only hears his voice raise a few beats below a hysteria that should only be reserved for women when the shift of his body only adds new ripples and layers of definition.

 “You forgot a bloody tie too, you daft bastard!” He calls louder than necessary as he storms into his bedroom and begins to pace agitatedly around his bed. If he can’t run from this ridiculous mess of self-hatred and denial and confusion he has created for himself, he needs to be moving, ready to combat his next stupid decision. Because he is so, so fucked at this stage of the game, my son.

“Cheers…are you sure you’re alright, One Two?” Bob’s voice is thoroughly laced with concern now as One Two begins digging angrily through his cupboard, determined not to acknowledge the shake in his hands as he rummages around.

“Stop worrying about me and worry about looking half-way decent, my man!” One Two shoots back, returning to the living area and throwing a handful of ties at Bob before continuing to pace openly, “Take yer pick.”

“You ain’t got anything less naff?” Bob inquires, grinning stupidly when One Two stares at him incredulously.

“Kindly stop fucking about so we can get back to the Speeler, a’right? There is a hand of cards waiting with my name on it.” One Two snaps testily, frustration and anxiety climbing in tandem. The sooner they can get out of his apartment, the sooner he can get to normalcy and create a comfortable distance from Bob and his stupid statements and all the other bits attached to him that are currently working One Two the entirely wrong way.

“We’ll get there quicker if you give us a hand, ay?” Bob calls to him. One Two freezes, focuses on breathing as he looks at Bob in the mirror, fixated on the pink slip of his tongue protruding as he concentrates hard on the knot, forces his feet to move forward even though his entire body is screaming at him to run, run hard and fast and far away in your mind just like you’re back on that treadmill.

“Give me that.” One Two all but growls, yanking the two lengths down to measure their evenness with unnecessary force. Bob is quiet and still under his hands. Fighting down the urge to panic, One Two feels the brush of his soft breath on his face, the slight taste of peppermint and his green eyes searching, silently probing.

“Look mate, I don’t mean to be difficult…” Bob starts talking (always with the talking between them – what ever happened to silence is golden, eh?) and One Two winces in spite of himself.

“You’re not, Bob. It’s just…not right…the tie I mean…fuck me!” One Two growls in anger, continuing to focus on the knot and not on Bob’s fucking depthless eyes and the smell of the cologne he stole from One Two’s bathroom, his cologne, and his horrendous choice of phrasing all things considered and how everything is suddenly way too hot and way to close in here.

“Let me finish – you never answered my question…” Bob presses, trying to catch his eyes. Over the stupid knot and the whole mess, One Two glares at him, hot with exasperation. 

“What question, Bob? Spit it out!”

“Do I look fit?” Bob asks, more direct now, but insistent, subconsciously runs his tongue over his lips, as though he’s asking something else entirely.

“What…what exactly do you want from me, eh?” One Two shoots back defensively, dropping his hands as they ball into fists.

 “I need to know,” Bob insists, and his voice hitches in a desperation that One Two hasn’t heard since the car, since ‘I told you, you wouldn’t understand…!’, “You’re all flustered and it means I am messing something up. I know things have been off between us lately, but we’ve got a job on and I want it to go smooth-like, right? So tell me what the problem is.”

“The only problem is you and I still having this conversation.” One Two spits out, reflexively slipping into anger as he steps away and moves towards the door and an easy escape.  

“You could’ve just come out and said it instead of beating around…” Bob counters with a dejected sigh over his shoulder, “I get it…I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

One Two freezes, heart hammering as he turns. Bob’s eyes are trained on the ground, shoulders slumped despite his best attempts to put on a solid front as he picks listlessly at his collar.

“Just another chav playing posh like some East-End twat…kinda funny, innit? Bet old Bertie and his flash missus are having a right laugh about it…” He grins crookedly with a chuckle that is far too hard to be amused, voice downcast.

“That’s enough of that, now, Bob…” One Two begins, moving before he can stop himself, the protectiveness that he likes to pretend prison beat out of him, their line of work numbed, flaring in his chest. The space is closed between them faster than One Two can anticipate and Bob’s eyes are rabid on him, bright and cold and a little bit lethal. 

“It’s not enough for me.” Bob shoots back, raw like an exposed nerve as his voice wavers dangerously close to emotion, “You can’t even say it…you think I’m a joke…”

“Bob, please…”

“Say it and I’ll leave off.” Bob finishes, undeterred, the hurt that One Two was attempting to stem without consciously realising bleeding through his tone. “Tell me what you really think or I’m fucking out, mate. You and Bertie and the rest of them can stick it...”

“Come on- you can’t just…” One Two splutters lamely, unable to find the words even as Bob stands there with his stupid buzzcut and his ridiculous lips, prison-thick shoulders shaped up for a confrontation. Lays his arms on his shoulders against his better judgement and knows its cruel as Bob jumps reflexively beneath him, moves out of his grasp like he’s been shocked.

“Laters, then.” Bob shrugs him off bitterly, shouldering past him forcefully to make his break for the exit. And lord knows why it’s unwarranted physical contact that sets off his fuse, but doesn’t that just piss One Two off enough to finally act.

Though he’s always been more of an endurance runner than deadly over short distances, One Two closes the gap between him and Bob with a burst of speed that might even give Mumbles the old oh-ho of surprise. Before he can applaud his own athleticism, he’s grabbed an equally startled Bob forcefully by the arm and with a spin slammed him into the wall beside the door.

 “Just hold on a second!” One Two shouts at him, pressing their faces closer than intended though it doesn’t hurt the intimidation factor, to amplify the anger radiating off him. He can see everything from here, Bob’s eyes frantically searching his face to see if he’s a few cards short of a deck or just gone all dramatically destructive like Johnny Quid gets when no one’s paying him a mind, his breathing coming out short and his goddamn stupid tongue darting out across his lips that are always too dry and far too full.

During his visual interrogation, One Two realises Bob is waiting, patient-like and still for him again like he was under his hands, like the rest of the Wild Bunch always do when they’re waiting for One Two to get on their level. Unlike Mumbles who thinks everything through so thoroughly he could’ve written a novel on the subject, One Two is a man of action and he realises now with growing concern he needs to make a statement or risk more than Bob just walking out the apartment door.  

Taking a breath, he drops his head to focus on his hands where they’ve worked their way up to Bob’s collar.

“Now you listen here, Bob…” He begins uncomfortably, slipping back to the familiarity of his friend’s name to guide him when he has no clue how he is going to go about this without going ass over tit as per his M.O.

“Save it, alright One Two?” The icy dismissiveness in Bob’s tone, his happy-go-lucky, cheeky bugger of a mate’s voice, nearly forces One Two’s head up, “You ain’t got it in you, so don’t strain yourself…let me go…”

Screwing his eyes shut against the challenge that lies there, One Two opens them again to focus on his hands, woven into Bob’s collar. The spike of worry quickly transforms into a throbbing anger that works its way from his temple into his mouth when he takes stock of the state of the brand new fucking shirt that cost more than a couple of quid.

Bob’s worried away at the collar and create a strand of loose thread dangling from the edge. The tie is a forgotten, rumpled mess and there are already creases set into the material from all the moving about. The throbbing in his head only threatens to explode when sees one of the few buttons that he’s attempted to reconcile is shoved into the wrong hole. What sets One Two right off the deep end is the final once-over is the wink of his stupidly exposed chest through the hole…is he wearing a fucking wife beater underneath?

“What are you playing at, ay?” One Two shoves him hard in the chest, “Why do you always have to push at me, eh? You’re Handsome fucking Bob. You’re telling me at this stage of the game that I need to tell you how you look? Like I am going to know whether some card-carrying faggot is going to give you the once over and the nod, hey?”

Even in his blinding fit of rage, he does register the surprise in Bob’s eyes, doesn’t mean for the words to come out as hurtful as he does, but also sees anticipation there and something that might look like hopefulness if he squinted hard in the right light. Bob’s mouth is a tight-line, restraining himself as he watches One Two pace, spit it out brashly and unintentionally, the only way he knows how. 

“You need me to tell you whether or not you look good? You dress like a man-sized toddler most of the time, so you fucking tell me!” One Two stops his pacing and starts pacing towards Bob, boxing him into the wall.

“Go easy there, mate…” Bob breathes tightly, but he’s not afraid and that anticipation is still there, like he’s holding his breath, stranded on the edge of One Two’s breaking resolve.

“You drive me fucking spare, Bob…do you know that? Absolutely mental. Nothing about you is easy, do you know that? I’ve spent all evening trying to wrangle you into some gear that almost reflects your age, to bring a bit of respectability to your demeanour and you can’t even put on a button up right – I’ve met invalids with better grooming…”

 “Are you done?” Bob breathes, beginning to look a bit pissed off now.

“You’ll know when I’m fucking done. You’re all mussed up without a care in the bleeding world, and you have the hide to ask me to comment on your appearance? Doesn’t matter what I think…bet you have a bit of an idea yourself. Your clothes could be from Vinnies and you’d still have all the fucking poofs and the posh birds in London flocking around you like you were fucking David Beckham, wouldn’t you?” One Two’s practically yelling in his face, breathless with it, hands wound into Bob’s collar again, this close to shaking him to make him see sense.

“So you’re saying I fit the bit and we can go now?” Bob asks, slowly and quietly, cheeks flushed with warmth and the beginnings of a grin edging their way onto his lips.

“What? No…yer can’t just…Bob, yer can’t be goin’ round lookin’…like that!” One Two grits out.

It’s fair to say that the situation is getting away from him. Before he can stop himself, he’s wound his hand around Bob’s throat, pinning him in place by the neck. With a surprised yelp, Bob begins to struggle but is able to do little more than kick aimlessly as One Two half lifts him off the ground in his blinding anger. As if the scenario couldn’t get more ridiculous, his free hand has an agenda all its own, working independently to viciously yank the shirt out of the shorter man’s pants and wrestling to undo the offended button that has been misplaced. His ministrations are as futile as Bob’s spluttering attempts to escape his grasp.

He’s never blacked out in anger before, lost consciousness in the devastating wake of overpowering frustration. That is the only way he can even begin to explain what happens next. With a frustrated growl, One Two releases Bob from his grasps and takes both hands to the task.

A button popping off and pinging onto the floor goes unnoticed. The unmistakable sound of material ripping silences Bob, stilling him blessedly under his hands, whiskey-soured breath coming out sickly sweet, hard and too fast. 

One Two’s mind stalls with mild comprehension, like the process of a slow reboot, responsive signals shooting up his spine. His hands reshape into claws, beginning to shred until the blunts of his bitten down nails beginning to scratch, more gently now as his responses begin to catch up with his brain, against something more tender, but firm and very much alive…

“Fuck...”

The groan that accompanies the bitten off statement brings One Two back to himself for a second. Blinking hazily as he comes too from his seemingly manic state, Bob is panting, laid out on the wall before him, pupils black pins in his face, lower lip moist and ragged from where he’s chewed it half bloody.

Strips of baby blue cloth fall from his hands as what’s left of the garment hang off the younger’s prone frame. One Two’s eyes drop in slowly downing horror to the centre of mass, his belly heaving for breath. The parallel drag of his nails standout starkly, crimson gashes lusty in their boldness against the pale skin. But when he rakes his gaze back upward, none of the disgust, shame or worry that is making his guts churn is reflected in his best friend’s face. That fucking stupidly plush mouth of his is slightly parted, but in the haziness of his expression, the unevenness of his breathing and the slackness in his jaw, there is only anticipation, complete trust where One Two feels fear.

“You got anything else to say, pretty boy?” One Two demands, some of the twisting in his internal organs alleviating when the rough voice that projects still manages to maintain its commanding edge. It’s meant to sound a challenge, and even though the dominant, predatory side of his brain that just wants without reason tells him he’s gone too far to turn back now, there is a well conceal exit strategy on offer – turn tail, bolt, see ya on the flip.

Bob’s forest-thick eyelashes flutter with a stutter that he cannot voice, and just when One Two is certain the line ends here, his wet tongue moistens those too inviting lips one last time before closing shut, tipping his head back ever so slightly while still maintaining that desperate, starving stare. A man in a more rationale frame of mind would see it clearly for what it was – silence in hope of not spooking, scaring off a deal that is more than he’d ever bargained for. But in a lusty haze, there is so much more – an unspoken offering that steels One Two’s resolve.   

“Good. Shut your goddamn mouth for once in your life, ya lippy bastard. You listening to me? You been carrying on since the Speeler. Biting when I rightly question your sense of taste because I want better for you, then acting like a petulant fucking twat before we got into the store. Then when we got in there, toe-holed sneaker and all, you’re flaming it up with the best of them, putting it on for the sales assistant, prancing around like you belonged there with all the other posh fuckers – not to mention the change room! And that ridiculous cover story about…hell, if I wasn’t holding your fucking purse as you’re pretend boyfriend, you would’ve had me going too!”

Once the words start flowing, One Two can’t seem to stop, hands now pinned to the wall on either side of Bob’s head as he continues to rant and rave. The switch in his dull brain willing him to stop has long since been disabled, overheating and malfunction just like his goddamn ability to bloody let things lie.

“The best and worst part of it was that you had her completely convinced. You talked the talk, the clothes looked well schmick, then we come back here and try the same damn things on again and you’re back to being a bell-end about it, bitching and moaning. You know what fashion is about, Bobski? It’s not about social status, or price tags, or letting the clothes wear you. It’s about being a man. Being as comfortable in a penguin suit as you are in your own damn skin because you know who you are… who gives a fuck what I, or anyone else thinks? Should I put it in terms you can relate to? You fuck blokes for a living? If you owned the way you dress like you own being a gay, you’d be king of the fucking queens! Act like you have a pair like you did with that snotty sales woman and…”

One Two was blessedly cut off from his own pro-gay while simultaneously homophobic epiphany when Bob surges aggressively off the wall and slams his mouth against his own. The mesh of teeth, facial hair and insistent tongues was like nothing he’d ever experience before, yet so strangely familiar – like finally squaring off properly with a familiar adversary that you’d scrapped with over and over but never quite been able to get into it with. 

From the beginning assault, Bob let his actions speak louder than One Two’s rambling diatribe – physically claiming the upper hand with a startling possessiveness. He drags One Two deeper into the kiss, recklessly delving his tongue into his best friend’s shock-parted mouth, pulling out sounds that he didn’t even know he was capable of (and would never admit to in less pleasant company) as he pinned him in place by the scruff of his neck.

The other free hand slipped down to One Two’s waist to drag him closer, tugging him roughly by the hip until the length of their bodies smacked against each other. The result was intoxicating – two immovable forces attempting to push and bend the other to their will, tectonic plates stubbornly drawn together, friction created through the relentless struggle to claim and control.

 It was One Two beginning to give back that surprised both of them. Bob almost started when he felt One Two’s hand grip onto his shoulder, the other settling awkwardly at the top of his chest, not to push him away but to tentatively finger his tantalisingly exposed collarbone. Though Bob’s mouth continued to work him over in the most debased manner thinkable, bravely alternating between worrying at his bottom lip and licking filthily into his mouth like he was born for it, One Two felt himself lightheadedly begin to move against him in return, previously listless lips beginning to explore of their own volition.

Both men slowed to a halt when One Two shivered, feeling his body begin to betray itself against Bob’s thigh that had somehow found its home snuggled in between his legs. Just as his brain began to commence the early stages of panic, the first signs of no-homo warning signals beginning their murderous wails, Bob’s dishelved state left it in no two minds about his almost painfully apparent arousal.

Before One Two can spook and bolt, Bob brings it back from the brink. With One Two frozen in place in his delayed responsiveness in selecting whether to fly or fight, Bob begins undoing the older man’s button up with unshaken hands. He lies poorly to himself as he stands, tells himself its anxiety caught up in the middle of a foreign situation, but what hope would he have of outrunning his own desire?

“Listen now, Bob…we…this…” One Two splutters brokenly, barely finding his words let alone the logic that he’s desperately searching for.

Glancing up from his own handiwork as the shirt slips just barely open, enough to get the slightest appraising eyeful of One Two’s flushed chest, the toned runner’s lines of his stomach quivering in their desperation to be touched, the silky purr that emits from Bob’s throat is enough to make One Two’s still rock-hard dick jump hard enough to nearly ruin his well-pressed slacks.

“Shame about the shirt. Guess it’ll be back to trainers and sweats, yeah?” Bob hums, running an errant finger up and down the length of One Two’s torso as the man beneath his skilled hands momentarily forgets how to draw breath, “Can’t imagine you’d be getting lucky with Stella then, right?”

“Don’t go there, Bob.” One Two warns, but the threat is as unconvincing as the tremor in his voice as Bob continues in a tone that is as gravelly as it is smooth.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, darling. Bertie won’t mind – he wouldn’t remember if I rocked up in chiffon ballgown, let alone his own name, when I get him all riled up…when I’ve got him bent over one his posh couches, balls-deep…”

Before he can reconcile his own recklessness in a flurry of motion, One Two’s shoved Bob backwards, just far enough for him to lose balance, before driving him crashing down to his knees. Red tinging his vision like it never left, all One Two can think about is getting Bob to shut his too slick mouth and all the blasphemous words pouring out of it. The unbidden images that the dialogue is conjuring in his mind, dark and dirty and so damn wrong they are right swirl at the edge of his consciousness, adding a purple tingle to the swill of madness darkening his perspective.

He’s fumbling with his belt buckle as Bob is still babbling, almost talking in his willingness to remain vocal on the subject, as drunk on his own want as One Two is.

“Don’t know why you make such a fuss over clothes, mate. It’s just a bit of material. What is that saying ancient codgers like you use…the clothes make the man? I know who I am and I ain’t afraid of it.” Bob’s gaze is unwavering on him as he clears his belt, bouncing restlessly on his haunches as he impatiently rubs his bulge through his pants.

“Most people use a bit of cloth to pretend at status or money they never had, looks or an age they’re well past. Jewellery, make up, flashy cars…it’s all smoke and mirrors. Something to hide behind… fuck me!”

Bob punctuates his surprise with a loud, wanton groan as One Two releases himself from his underwear, takes in the wet patch darkening the material, spreading insistently like a blood stain and just as incriminating. Licks his suddenly dry lips, stormy eyes darting upward but remaining restrained in sudden stillness. One Two faintly thinks he could too easily rub one out to this alone, getting off on the sight of Bob before him, well-trained but desperate to strain and attack, acting on command as he never does in their life outside of this fucked up moment.

“No more talking, Bob.” Bob’s eyes grow impossibly large as One Two sets his hips, leans back into it as he begins to stroke himself openly in front of him, exposing that in this alternate universe, he knows exactly what he wants even if it isn’t who he is.     

“While we’re getting all hypothetical, let’s go back to the car the night before you were supposed to go down for the five stretch. Ay, I know you got your slow dance, but you wanted more, now didn’t ya? What was it exactly, after all this time, that you wanted to do to me, Bob?” 

The statement isn’t a clearly voiced permission to proceed, but it’s enough. It takes mere seconds before Bob is on him, swallowing him down faster than shotgunning a warm lager on a Sunday at a Leicester match -no warm up required.

One Two can’t hold back the gasp that tears from his ragged throat as Bob takes the length of him eagerly, the whole pornographic nine yards – hollowing his cheeks to create a black hole of suction that in his current state One Two would be happy to never return from. He can’t see how he can ever recover from this turn of events anyway, this unforgivable crossing of unspoken boundaries between mates, but if this is the way it has to go, given the transient nature of their existence, there are far less pleasant ends to be met.

Scrabbling for purchase in the buzzed plane of his cropped hair is as futile as holding back the whole-body tremors, the grunts and groans escaping from the tight-lipped line of his mouth, the heat stoking dangerously low in his belly. When his body unintentionally jerks away, Handsome doesn’t even pause for breath, snakes his hand around to squeeze One Two’s arse cheek, forcing him to jolt forward and close the space between their bodies again, forcing him further, deep, deep down the cavernous column of his throat. With all the tread-milling training in the world, One Two couldn’t outrun this is he tried, too hot in his clothes and sure they are the only thing holding him together, unable to outpace the shots of adrenaline spiking up his spine, causing his heavy balls to begin to draw warningly back towards his centre of mass.

As the minutes pass, Bob’s ministrations become sloppy with an undetectable precision. When One Two’s hand begins to falter in his hair, he pulls off with an obscene pop to begin massaging the throbbing head of his cock, before soothing the angry vein running underneath with the dedicated flat of his tongue. Blocked by the offensive concealment of One Two’s still worn clothing from venturing into other areas of his person, Bob satisfies himself but wrapping his hand around the base and attacking from both sides, beginning to pump viciously when One Two’s manful growls break into unabashed, needy moans for release.

When he faintly detects the sound of Bob tearing his own trousers open (was that more material ripping?) and beginning to make obscene noises of encouragement while continuing to pull and suck him off simultaneously, One Two knows he is absolutely done for, son. One blow job was all it took from going from a man blissfully ignorant and confident in the state of his sexuality to forgoing bail, no visiting hours, throw away the key fucked in less than three minutes flat.

The echoes from Bob’s throat reverberated along the length of his dick, deep and wet and shuddering. Finally finding the stones to open his eyes and look down at Bob lets One Two know how deep in the shit he is, how well and truly gone. An all-expenses paid visit from the Harris twins with Stella as the third couldn’t make him deny how irrevocably sexy the sight of Bob splayed out on his knees, going hell for leather on the fellatio, truly is. It’s breath-taking – he’s basically shaking with his enthusiasm, screaming it out along the length of One Two’s dick as he goes at it, face covered in slick spit in his commitment to making the experience as wet and wonderful as possible. Amidst the noises that have transformed into desperate keening and tending to One Two’s nearly cocked-to-explode member, Bob is pumping himself so furiously that One Two can’t even get a good perve in, his hand a blur of fast twitch fibers.

Sensing eyes on him like any good con worth his weight in the trade, Bob catches One Two’s gaze and holds him there, just as he does in the palm of his hand.

“I-I can’t…” It’s not the words so much as his own traitorous tone that makes One Two’s stomach turn, churning hot with burning embarrassment but more overwhelmingly desire, stronger than a kick in the teeth. He’s so turned on he can’t see straight. Bob’s industrious hands continuing their ministrations, nearly shouting as one slips down to give his balls a sharp tug while refusing to relinquish his pace on his dick, capturing the weeping pre-come and lubricating the length of him with luxuriant, firm sweeps of his strong wrists.

“Fuck – you have no idea how good you look right now. You’re close, aren’t you?” Bob murmurs with a breathy reverence, his own neglected dick slapping heavily against the exposed skin of his belly, changing his grip to get a better angle as One Two throws his head back with a cry, “Look at me, mate.”

Reigning his head back down, One Two glances down to find Bob looking as messed up as he knows himself to be. It’s a sight to behold – chest heaving with the exertion under a light layer of sweat, lips red and panting, his eyes completely focused on the task at hand but glazed over with the headiness of his need. Through his own fog, One Two can see Bob fighting to control himself, putting himself second even after waiting for this for so long, single-minded in his drive to get One Two over the line.

“You can, One Two and it’s going to be so fucking good when you do…” Bob shuts his eyes for a second, stilling to compose himself before continuing, shaking with the effort of it, “Shut your eyes for a second, OK?”

As much as he wants to protest, keep it all in focus, One Two obeys, giving over to the darkness. Everything is still for a second, then he almost jumps out of his skin as he feels Bob undo his belt, laving at the exposed strip of skin above his waistband before pushing his underwear and pants down past his hips to expose more of him. In his over-sensitised state with no vision, it’s almost too much. Bob’s tongue wanders down the sharp ridges of his pelvis, teeth nipping at the top of each thigh. When One Two’s properly trembling underneath him, Bob returns to tease the tip of his head with his tongue, suckling ever so gently but making sure he’s heard. The groan he emits when he pulls off is pained, like it physical hurts him to do so.

When Bob speaks, it’s so soft, so movingly intimate, that One Two cannot believe his own reaction when he shudders bodily and suddenly feels it coming on hard, full bore like a fucking freight train.

“That’s it babe, you can feel it, can’t you?” Bob soothes, and One Two is basically leaning into his touch as he continues, gently coaxing with his hands and words, “So good for me, that’s it... just need to get out of that big, messy head of yours and give over to, it yeah? You feel so good…need to see you, but even more badly than that…wanna taste you when you do…”

And if that doesn’t get him going, One Two doesn’t know what will, mewling helplessly as he feels his dick convulse in Bob’s hand at the thought of being fully immersed in his mouth again, buried in that sweet, tight heat. Bob doesn’t miss the movement, and capitalises on it, stripping One Two’s pulsing dick as his mouth starts to run away with him.

“I want you to take it, One Two. Going to swallow you again now, and I want you to fuck my face, okay?” One Two can barely breath, barely believe what he’s hearing as Bob’s voice cracks, breathing hitching wildly, the sound of skin slapping on skin echoing as he takes himself back in hand, borderline begging.

“Please One Two…I know you…you’re hung like a fucking horse, but I can take it… I’m fucking starving for it, mate…I can handle it…going to swallow you down…want you to use me…abuse my dirty hole till I can feel it pulsing hot and thick down my neck…wanna be able to feel you for days…please…”

So hard up for release that he moves on instinct, One Two responds as Bob moves into the motion, parting his lips just enough for One Two slam his length through the opening. Gripping Bob’s skull hard in his hands, One Two’s hips begin mercilessly snapping of their own accord as Bob accepts him with ease, moaning his ascent loudly as he fists his own dick. He’s pounding into the back of Bob’s throat before he can stop himself, feeling no barrier, just warmth and wet and blessed give.

Bob’s jaw must be aching by now, but he refuses to quit in the heat of it, hollowing his cheeks to provide the perfect amount of tension around the sizeable length of One Two that hasn’t forced it’s way down his neck. One Two wants to scream in frustration – suspended in the sensation, too good and too wet and too damn far away from where he needs to be.

It amazes and pisses One Two off to no end that without any signal under the bleeding sun, Bob has got his number. Seems to know exactly what he needs without him giving the faintest indication, with taking charge and not letting him think, the exhibitionist performance and goading him on with the dirtiest things he’s ever heard, even half choking him to death on his cock with no thought of reciprocation in his periphery.

It shouldn’t come as a shock to One Two that the man that he trusts with his life on a professional basis, not to snitch or stich him up, that his getaway driver, his best mate at the end of all of it, has got him even in this. Despite his occasionally ignorant ways, if nothing else, One Two knows that Bob is wily, not to be underestimated, no sir. And when One Two just can’t seem to get the job done, Bob makes it his mission to take care of business. 

Upon reflection in a dark room after putting an entire bottle of Scotch away, One Two assures himself that in his right, sober mind, the sudden increase in volume, spluttering and gagging like his lungs are about to give out, that introduced this next course of action should’ve set off warning bells as a diversion, but in his blissed out state, only served to heightened his arousal, push him that much closer to the end.

He swears he never felt it when as Bob used one hand to drag him closer by the hip, pushing him flush against him, driving him deeper into his mouth and prompting even more noise, the other skilfully crept around and parted his cheeks before delving into the slippery, unchartered crack of his…his arse. Too off his head on the sparking heat in his belly to feel the single finger circling the bases, before the tip slid home.

Home run. Touch down. Bulls eye.

When One Two’s eyes bulge out of his head and he opens his mouth to protest, all that comes out is string of obscenities framed with a shout as he comes, harder than he has in longer than he can remember. Doesn’t even have the chance to pull out or warn Bob in lieu of biting his head off before he’s all but slamming into the back of his throat with the sheer force of it. He doesn’t even know himself when he’s whining again, a high-pitched groan as Bob’s lips continue to work around him greedily, swallowing his seed like he’s never tasted anything better than this, nor is like to again. 

Faintly as he attempts to hold himself up against the wall when his knees may or may not precede to half buckle as Bob pulls off him, One Two attempts to find his tongue again. He nearly swallows it when he hears Bob cry out triumphantly, back arching beautifully where he kneels as he strips his dick furiously, painting his release all over One Two’s previously pristine black shoes. It’s simultaneously the hottest and most horrifying use of footwear that One Two has ever experienced.

In the quiet moments of the aftermath, Bob is the first to move, shifting easily from his knees. The torn shreds of clothing scattering like confetti to the floor as he stands, rooting around for a shirt that is still in one piece, before ducking down the hall to the bathroom without a glance sideways.  
  
Predictably, it’s takes One Two longer to recover, always the last to the party, come drunk and confused. The careful click of the door that signals Bob’s imminent return triggers something in him - the weight of realisation, the reality of what they...what he’s participated in willingly hits him like a sucker punch to the gut, second hand smoke, making him choke in disbelief.  
  
“So...guess there wasn’t much point in keeping the tags on, eh?” Bob chuckles with that infuriatingly relax lopsided grin, somehow already clothed, beginning with a pause that suggests he’s been standing there unacknowledged in front of his face for a substantial amount of time.  
  
Before One Two even has a second to reconcile what an absolute fucking prick he is to have cocked this up, Bob is moving again, reaching to pour them a drink.  
  
“I-eh...” One Two’s lips move, but nothing intelligible comes out, frozen to the wall like a shag on a rock and just about as useful. He is able to extend his physical capabilities to desperately snatch for the pro-offered beverage, slamming it back with a speed that has his already spinning head lapping itself in double time.  
  
Bob coughs harshly as he swallows the drink down, tries to clear his throat to continue. It’s certainly not sentiment stopping him. One Two realise belatedly that for all the neutrality of his tone, his voice is ragged, completely fucked out. He did that...  
  
“Little rough on the merchandise, weren’t you? Like Old Mumbles would say, maybe try using your words next time before resorting to the rough stuff,” Bob continues filling up the space with his one sided conversation, voice low as he gingerly takes his place on the wall an appropriate distance from One Two’s still frozen person.  
  
“What the fuck? You can’t tell me after all that shit...the slow dance and the...you didn’t want...oh god...” One Two’s head snaps up in alarm at the misread implication, eyes wild, jaw dropping before snapping shut, pulsing, breathing close to hyperventilation now.  
  
“Christ, I’m talking about the shirt you destroyed, you bell-end!” Bob raises his hands defensively, smiling wiped immediately from his face when One Two begins clutching at his chest, honest to god beginning to lose it, flipping his shit on complete overload.  
  
He just fooled around with his right hand man. His best mate. His...Bob. If he’s fucked this up, their friendship, and if he looks himself hard in the mirror and admits it to himself, this shifty, slow build of a thing that has been developing between them over all these years, the castration that the Russians were beginning to execute doesn’t even begin to touch upon the hellish end he deserves.  
  
“Look at me, One Two! Eyes on me, you stubborn git...”  
  
Before One Two can process the statement or the full extent of his deviance or give over to his body’s desperate pleas to black the fuck out , strong, reassuring hands are pinning him to the wall by his shoulders. He registers Bob’s mouth on his again, and it should send him sprinting, feel like it’s sucking the dwindling air supply out of his lungs, but instead he’s breathing again. The lips on his move with a controlled urgency that he can focus on, repetitious in their rhythm, soothing in their softness.  
  
“Don’t.” Bob murmurs quietly against him, a plea that’s barely a whisper. Any possible search for meaning or train of thought One Two could hope to muster is erased as he claims him again.  
  
Bob shifts his head to deepen the angle, a supporting hand shifting to the back of his neck, holding him in place as his tongue slides in to caress.  
  
The exchange goes from soothing to heated in a matter of seconds as One Two finds his head, suddenly ravenous for the returned scrape of facial hair and damaging hands on his body.  
  
The shrill interruption of a ringtone stops One Two dead in his tracks, caught red handed and red faced. Bob pulls back with torturous deliberation, only releasing One Two’s bottom lip with a rough nip after the burner begins trolling for a second time.  
  
“Mumbles, how are you, my old son?” Bob answers jovially, hands on his hips. One Two is still stuck on the goddamn wall like the ugliest lass at the gathering, gasping for breath and semi hard again and looking at Bob with all of his composure like he has two heads - three not including...fuck.  
  
“The excursion was about as ace as it could be with One Two leading, you know?” Bob intones with leisurely affectation, wandering in loose loops as he speaks to the third of their partnership, stretching with a yawn, “But yeah we got the goods.....we might have to go around again sometime, if the old codger will have me...”  
  
“ Mmmm...of course I meant Bertie! He won’t know what’s up or down, no fear! Ten four...I’ll pop down for a cuppa and tell you all about it! Catch ya...”  
  
As Bob ends the call, One Two’s bleary brain finally kicks back into gear. Thank the sweet Queen mother that there are about thirty other shirts at their disposal, but they were meant to be back at the Speeler an hour ago. What exactly is Bob so keen to chin wag with Mumbles about, and why the fuck is he bringing up that haggard old queen Bertie? How is he going to explain away all those purchases to Stella? And at the pinnacle of all these questions, where do Bob and he stand now?  
  
As is his want, One Two’s mouth is flapping before he can get a handle on it, almost startling Bob with his sudden animation as he begins pacing restlessly.  
  
“Now wait a second, Bob... you can’t just piss off...we’ve got got to talk about this...get our story straight...I mean, together...fuck’s sake...!”  
  
Rolling his eyes a little at the older man’s ineptitude, Bob steps squarely into his space and places a final, silencing kiss on his still gaping mouth.  
  
“I’ve got you, One Two.” Bob states firmly, with all the certainty in the world, just another pick up location for a bank job or the next round ordered at the pub. His words are startling in their simplicity- confirming that everything is going to be fine between them when One Two knows that nothing will ever be the same.  
  
The only allusion to the events that have transpired between them comes in the form of his stormy eyes slipping down briefly to One Two’s lips. A sigh escapes Bob’s, as wistful as it is reverent, before he pats One Two hardily on the shoulder before slipping towards the door.  
  
“I hope you don’t treat all your conquests this poorly! Your etiquette needs more work than your wardrobe, Bob.” One Two hears himself shout out of nowhere, stopping Bob in his tracks in the threshold. He has no idea where the banter comes from, but it feels right somehow, regardless of the consequences.  
  
Swinging with one arm on the door frame, Bob grins hard at him then, affectionate warmth in the set of his face betraying his combative tone.  
  
“Oh ho, you can talk mate! Take a look in the mirror right now. Get yourself tidied up before you show your face in the Speeler, hey? You’re a wreck!”  
  
Alone in his empty unit, One Two takes in his rumpled shirt and torn open pants. He begins shedding them as quickly as he can muster, trying to ignore how irreparably damaged his come stained shoes are and how his spent dick is already showing signs of interest in recollection of them being reduced to that state.  
  
He contemplated staying at home, hiding out for a couple of days till it blows over, then grimaces at the thought of the ladies group at The Speeler getting into it without him present.  
  
Jogging to the loo, One Two gives himself the once over in the mirror, tidying his mussed up hair. He’s never felt less in control in his life, flooded with confusion, embarrassment and crippling, clouding desire and he looks a sight.  
  
But even agitated and fucked up, One Two’ll show up because that’s what he does. He grabs a black shirt that accentuates his dark features, hugs his chest just slightly too tightly. Runs another hand through his hand unnecessarily and does it up with unsteady fingers.  
  
Slips out onto the street and blends immediately with the evening. One Two might not feel it, but he knows from the side long glances he gets that he looks slick as they come. The conditions of their hazardous occupation have made him a master of deception, deflection, hiding in plain sight. He’s always made the camouflage attire of their trade, ski masks and army slacks, accentuate his hard man stature, his unaffectedness and conceal the trepidation and the fear.  
  
Even if Mumbles calls his piss weak poker face, even if Bob sees straight through the bluster and banter, One Two will deny,fire back flippantly as he drinks more and more and becomes less and less sure of himself. He has a reputation to uphold after all. Appearances are everything, even when you’re not sure who’s staring back at you in the mirror anymore.


End file.
